


When the earth ripped assunder

by Kasan_Soulblade



Category: Pokemon Mystery Dungeon
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Paralysis, Theft, deconstruction of the guild system, outlaw pokemon analysis, outsiders looking in, unexpected side effects of evolution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 13:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11692884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: He'd held the earth in his hand, and at his command it ripped asunder.  But such feats came with costs and those about him were unwilling to help him shoulder it's burden.He'd held the world, upheld it even, and when it broke him they left the pieces.These were the consequences of one lost stone, one abandoned hero, and one feat of strength summoned out of sheer desperation.





	1. Neither better or worse

He’d held the power of the earth in his hand, it’s ran through him from crown to talon tip, and with a screech he’d set free a strength that was his but not

And the earth responded, the ground split asunder.  The walls stone and of earth spider webbed and the arch above –all stone and stretching before them going forever and ever- fell down.

And the monsters, housed and not, fell before him.

A horde of things that were but weren’t baring ghostly grins quit earth but never achieved sky.  Whispering between material and not, even for them, with earth and pseudo sky failing, they were crushed as the whole world fell in.  And in their passing, it was as if some fell curse was unleashed, there was light –ironic that, later he’d find it near funny, the gallows type- and as it faded and the dust rolled in his limbs failed in stages.  First his arms fell to his sides, and then his legs… they crumpled then twisted, behind him yet angled up.  The last was his mouth once gaped as he’d been once panting, locked in pre scream , it clicked shut as paralysis first locked then sealed  his jaw with something harder than the grit that coiled and threaded through the dark which was returning around him as the light fled.

As before, there was nothing, nothing save stone on stone, and mercy or cruelty call it what you will, all he had was sight and all the world lay before him.

A pulverized mess where once there had been grinning dark and malice born chuckles.

Now there was silence.  Silence and waiting, that long cursed waiting before someone, anyone, came along who was strong enough to get there and who had the tenacity to look back and maybe, just maybe find him.

It would be a long timeless wait, interspersed with times where he recalled hunger, recalled thirst, but he found he truly did not need either.

So he stared, and lingered in a dark that he had wrought and it was a long wait, where he could not even scream, or call out, or beg for better.

And call it mercy or kindness it was neither better or worse for the longest of times.


	2. Silence and consent

They dragged him. Gripping the smoothness about his eyes for fear of the jags they couldn’t really see but had found with gripping appendages the first time around.  The limbs that’d been whole and two but now were a grey sheathed twisted one, that they’d gripped when the claws digging into the place above his eyes had dug in too deep and red had mixed with the colorless that’d been seeping from his eyes.  From dark to light they hauled him, he went face first from solitary to captivity.  And it was only after two turns of stairs that’d he’d scrunched his eyes against  least he lose more before one smart soul mentioned that they might be being a mite mean. And thus the whole parade stopped and the biggest of the group had tried to pick him up.

The spines along his back and sides, those he hadn’t even known were there were discovered, to yowls and swears.  And thus he’d been dropped with something like touch awakening in him.  It was dull sort of pressure, a hot that ran down his skin and made him want to squirm away but he couldn’t.  His most desperate of motions didn’t even cause him to rock back and forth, not even in the slightest.

Thus he could not speak, or wail, or recoil, or even apologize.

And for that last impulse, it didn’t last long in him when they grabbed what his legs had been and went back to dragging him.

Face down, up stone up steps, until texture changed to something that parted, that didn’t scrape, then he’d dared open his eyes, to light, and recalling what light had wrought before he’d scrunched up his eyes and wished wished he could shiver, could scream, warning and dangers, of light and what it could bring.

But for effort and want he got nothing and nothing.

And so he did nothing and nothing, not even when they righted him and the burly of the lot, his main dragger set him on his strange merged limb leg and rocked him back and forth; telling him to wake up it was over.

It was over.

But for the longest he did not, open his eyes or try anything, the might have been screams were still rattling through his being and they heard nothing at all.  Only when they talked amongst themselves, saying he was the most realist Pupitar statue they’d ever seen did he open his eyes, and then they screamed. 

It was a pale echo of the cacophony in his head, and for a while the cuts above his eyes stung and ran a watery version of their previous red.

From a world away, he heard voices and words, eyes canted down he considered the earth, and because they had him pointed a specific ways about he was able to see the path his face had wrought over loose stone and the pathway he’d made, cobbled and all accidental, of stones, that unlike sand, hadn’t moved aside and thus been dug in.

“Hey, what’s your name.”

They hadn’t even the decency to ask him his name, just adlibbed and went with it.  Could he have he would of bristled.  As he couldn’t he was turned about, though sporting no mouth (no need to eat, or breathe or... so many things) he flicked red eyes from wrought path to the snouted face of…  well he wasn’t sure what it was.  Wasn’t sure what he was, not really.

“This yours?”

Sported in claws it was there.  His, yes.  Glinting a dull grit grey, it’s edges caught the suns failing light to glimmer the chain that he’d had looped about it was severed about the back but still there if in halves.  He blinked, having nothing else, as orange paws and white claws handled what was his mere inches in front of his eyes.

What he’d thrown away.

He recalled his own arms, how they felt when they’d moved, pulling back and hard and letting the chain snap and the stone fall back.

It stabilized his form they’d said, the giver of the stone, it stabilized his power, kept him bound in the frame he was, he’d not like the next.

(They’d not bare the last)

But with it on he’d not have lasted, not against what was there and not, what drug you in deeper and seeped into the cracks of your being seeping out all the heat.

He’d known what he’d faced had he not done anything.

Thus he’d dared and truth be told he hadn’t liked the consequences.

“Well if it’s not yours it’s mine then.”

Orange claw with his was pulled back and away taking what was his away.

Having nothing more to do he closed his eyes and remembered and thought of arms, and how he ached for some, and the ability to take what was his back, because somehow silence was consent and having nothing but silence he did all he could do.

So for now he closed his eyes and hoped for sleep, for waking in a when that wasn’t like this.


End file.
